


My Murder Husbands

by WrathoftheStag (Mwuahna)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 20:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7522003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mwuahna/pseuds/WrathoftheStag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddie Lounds finds out about the slaying of the Great Red Dragon and the death of the Murder Husbands.  But she's not buying it.  She knows her Murder Husbands are alive and cooking.  </p><p>Told from Freddie's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Murder Husbands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Devereauxs_Disease](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devereauxs_Disease/gifts).



> This story runs in the same universe and timeline as [Filing the Report](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7382179) by [Devereauxs_Disease](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Devereauxs_Disease/pseuds/Devereauxs_Disease).

My phone woke me up earlier than my alarm and rather than be pissed off, I was ecstatic because I know that when that happens it means something -- something extraordinary -- is about to make mama very happy. I sat up and grabbed it from under my pillow.

“Lounds,” I answered and the words that began to come from the other end of the line were unfucking believable.

“They’re dead.”

“Who? Who’s dead? Which ones?” I asked.

“You should be asking who _isn’t_.”

“Jesus, who?”

“Dolarhyde, Graham, Lecter…”

“What?”

“Dolarhyde, Graham and Lecter. Your Murder Husbands tagged teamed the bastard and then jumped off a cliff together.”

I sat up taller in bed, not quite believing it yet, “You have got to be shitting me.”

“Nope. They are saying Graham pulled Lecter down in some sort of struggle. Boop. Right over the bluff into the Atlantic but…”

“But,” I said already knowing what the next words were going to be.

“But you and I both know that probably isn’t how it went down. Graham’s no goddamn hero. The blood pattern on top of the bluff doesn’t even show a struggle. Quite the contrary, but people are already in full swing here to make sure none of that shit sees the light of day.”

“Honest to god, those two.”

“No shit. Listen, I have to go. I have some photos. Trust me, they’ll be worth the price. Check your secure email. I sent you the address of where it all went down, too.”

The line went dead before I could ask anything else. My trusty informant was definitely turning out to be worth their asking price. God bless good old fashioned capitalism.  
  


**+++**

  
I turned on the coffee maker and thought back to when my informant told me earlier that everyone at the bureau was going crazy because of Lecter’s escape and Graham’s “kidnapping.” Right then I knew shit was going to go down in a big way. Lecter wouldn’t be disappearing gently into that good night. Oh no, and my Murder Husbands certainly did not disappoint.

I logged onto my email and there was an address for a place about two hours from here. Time to get going then, wasn’t it? What a glorious, glorious day. I clicked on the attached photos, not quite sure what to expect. There lay Dolarhyde, looking like a broken angel that had sprouted wings of blood. God, he actually looked like a slain dragon. Bizarre. How the hell did they do that? Again, these two did not disappoint.

I zoomed in and it appeared that someone had bitten a chunk out of Dolarhyde’s neck. Well that’s a Hannibal Lecter calling card if ever there was one. I'd bet my life on it. Total drama queen. The Great Red Dragon -- or rather more like a worm of dread -- was slain and dead thanks to my Murder Husbands.

Also attached was a photo of the bluff, presumably the one they where they took the plunge. That was quite a leap. A lover’s leap. When I was a kid, my parents and I visited Hannibal, Missouri and wouldn’t you know it? There’s a famous attraction there called the Lover’s Leap. Pretty funny, universe. Pretty funny.

A few lines were shared in a bullet point list in the email:

• _There are a couple minutes of found video footage that Dolarhyde was shooting; so that helped us map things out. And no, you can’t see it. Don’t even ask._  
• _We think Dolarhyde shot Lecter through the window in the living room, where it appears Lecter then fell onto the floor near the piano._  
• _There were vast amounts of what is probably Graham’s blood in that living room, not far from Lecter._  
• _The trails then lead to the front of the house, outside._  
• _Dolarhyde died from blood loss (bite and stab wounds.)_  
• _The blood at the edge of the bluff was most likely Graham’s and Lecter’s. The blood pattern there did not indicate any sort of struggle._  
• _All verification pending lab results, but it’s pretty obvious what went down and how._

The email then ended with a most interesting postscript:

_P.S. Graham’s prints were found all over the house. On the books, vinyl records, the kitchen and bathroom, on the piano keys, wine glasses, in the bedroom. Everywhere._

Everywhere, huh? Most interesting.

**+++**

  
Should I be mourning Will Graham? No. One: he was always a creepy little shit. Two: that tiny man is not dead. Not dead. NOT DEAD. I could feel it in my bones, and these lovely bones were never wrong.

Oh sure, they claimed that the Tooth Fairy orchestrated the whole Lecter escape plan, but I know what’s what. Graham might have had Crawford fooled with his reformation act (Saint Graham of the Canine Woodland Divinity) but I know a salty ass jealous man when I see one. And all of that wonderful nastiness hurtled towards Dolarhyde  -- “He’s ugly!” “He’s impotent!” -- was basically just Graham peeing on his cannibae, marking his territory like a good little dog. The relationship between those two was intense, and odd as hell. I don’t care how many single moms Graham would have married, he could never bury his feelings for Lecter deep enough.

After a quick shower, I got dressed, grabbed my coffee and my Nikon D800, and headed out for the long drive to the Murder Husband love nest. Murder Husbands. Ha! What a couple of loons. I have never seen two people more obsessed with each other than those two. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were buying monogrammed towels right about now.

When I first saw Graham, I knew that he wasn’t right in the head. He could act like a precious innocent -- hell, maybe he even had _himself_ fooled at some point -- but you don’t attract the attention of someone like Hannibal Lecter without emitting some sort of freak vibe.

Remembering that dinner we all had together at Lecter’s house, I could see their connection. It was very much on the down low at that point but the undercurrent was there, pulling them toward one another -- drowning in the darkness of each other. Weirdos. And that poor Abigail stuck in the middle of it all. It’s a wonder she was alive as long as she was.

I finally arrived and drove by the house once, and saw three cop cars parked outside. Getting closer would be a challenge at this point. I don’t think even full on Charming Freddie would make a dent, so I drove by once more and parked behind some bushes along the house across the road. Would renting a helicopter be overkill? I should look into it when I get back home.

The house was what you would expect a Lecter home to look like, even if this one is architecturally vastly different than his Baltimore home. The modernity of it all showed that Hanner’s good taste transcended any one particular style.

I took out my camera, and my telephoto lens gave me a closer view: large windows showing an open dining room and living room, affording a view of the lover’s leap bluff nearby.

I took a few more photos of the interior and decided to come back in the evening. I may as well stick around. Looking at my watch I knew I had enough material and time to post this breaking story on the website. I looked up the nearest coffee shop and already had a headline in mind: MURDER HUSBANDS ELOPE. HONEYMOON FROM HELL ITSELF. These two practically wrote themselves.

**+++**

About an hour after I posted the story, my informant called again.

“So you’re one busy little beaver, aren’t you? People are freaking the fuck out over here.”

“I can’t help it if the scandalous truth is out there and needs to be gossiped about.”

“All right, settle down Mulder. There’s going to be just one cop car stationed out there tonight, so you might be able to get closer.”

“Why are you being so damned helpful?” I asked.

They were silent for a moment and then responded, “Because I think this shit needs to be exposed, not covered up.”

It sounded good to me -- but please don’t try to make me into some of vigilante. That’s not my scene, babe.

**+++**

Around 1:00 a.m., I came back and a squad car was there with Officer Friendly fast asleep inside. Typical male. It was almost too simple to just walk right in. The broken window pane afforded me an easy in and out.

Stepping into the living room, I looked around and saw where Lecter fell after he was shot. Oh man, to see the look on his face after that happened. Now that is something I would have paid cash money to witness. “I say, Will! I do believe I’ve been shot!”

The Murder Husbands’ dining room was probably where they had what was their first real date...

_“Oh, Hannibal! This wine is amazeballs.”_

_“I am glad you think so, Will. It is made from the blood of my enemies; their eyeballs stomped on like insignificant grapes.”_

_“Oh, Hannibal! We’re so weird and in love.”_

_“Yes! What’s to be done about that?”_

_“I know! Let’s consummate our union by gang banging Dolarhyde with our knives.”_

Smooch, smooch, smooch. Drink, drink, drink.

That’s totally how it went down, right? Damn loons...bless their hearts.

I walked back to the master bedroom, which was surprisingly normal. No horns, whips, or whatever other kinky shit Lecter was into. I walked over and opened up the closet. Hanging neatly were several dress shirts. I took one out, it was definitely bespoke and had HL monogrammed inside on the collar. What was he? Five? Afraid he’ll lose his clothes unless it’s monogrammed, for shit's sake?

Next to Hannibal's shirts, I noticed several other shirts that seemed -- well, let’s just say more petite than the HL ones. Well, well, well. What do you know? These shirts had WG monogrammed on the inside. I...hell...I don’t even know what to make of that. I took some pictures of both sets of shirts. Interesting. Very interesting.

The bed looked as though someone had been in it, but only above the sheets. No one had been tucked into this bed. It seemed as though a nice little nap had been taken there. Was it Graham or Lecter? And who sang whom to sleep? You don’t have clothes at someone’s home, and you don’t take a snooze, and drink some wine, and hang out unless you are there willingly.

I took more photos of the entire home and then walked over to the bluff. That was one long ass fall. You’d have to be some lucky bastards to survive that sort of thing -- but it seems my Murder Husbands always had luck on their side.

So what happened then? They consummated their murder marriage, and then slipped and fell? Graham was clumsy as fuck. Or did Graham have a change of heart? Lecter worshipped the twitchy ground Graham walked on, so I can’t imagine Lecter pulling a switcheroo after they offed Dolarhyde together. That right there was as good as any declaration of love. What the hell happened? And who came in to help them? Because there was no way they could have just crawled out of the ocean, bleeding and shot, and been like, “Okie doke. Off to dinner, then.” Someone helped. Someone was in on this.

**+++**

The next day, the FBI released an official statement. I was working on the current print edition of TattleCrime when my underling, Patricia, came in and gave me a head’s up.

“Turn on CNN. They’re talking about Lecter and Graham.”

I jumped up, flipped on the television and the ticker on the screen read: “Federal Agent a Hero; Ultimate Sacrifice Given in Line of Duty.” Kade Prurnell appeared at the press room and spoke, “Although the escaped fugitive, Doctor Hannibal Lecter, was not apprehended, his reign of terror has finally ended. After being violently kidnapped, William Graham, our friend and colleague, presented the ultimate sacrifice and valor ---”

I turned it off. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Straight up prevarications. If that’s the junk the Bureau wants to present as fact, for whatever reason, so be it. But mark my words, those two were alive and cooking.

**+++**

I can’t say I was completely surprised when I got a copy of Jack Crawford’s closing report on the Lecter/Graham case, sent directly to me by Crawford himself. I read through the report, and all I could think was what a bunch of total and utter bullshit. I’m not sure what he wanted me to do with it, so I just sat on it for a while.

I will say I was surprised when I got a text from Zeller asking me if I could share a list of Lecter’s “associates.” What was that yahoo up to? I decided I had better play nice so I could get in on whatever he had going on, because clearly it was not bureau approved. I sent him what I had and then in a very uncharacteristic move on my part, I waited once again.

My next communiqué from Zeller was another text, months later, which simply read:

_Meet[us at the White Gables Motel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7382179) along Veteran’s Highway. We’re in Room 4._

Who was “we” I wondered?

I drove out to the White Gables and pulled into my usual parking spot. The only reason Zeller would have had me come out (apart from the obvious sexual ones) would be if he had something big to share. And what would be bigger than definitive proof that Graham and Lecter were not dead.

I approached Room 4, and outside stood Zeller and his co-worker -- Price was it? Only Price was in a completely ridiculous get up. I guess it was his official espionage incognito look. He reminded me of my aunt Francine. I really needed to call her. I think her birthday just passed. Or it was coming up? Hell if I know.

Price handed me a folio telling me that everything I would need to make a compelling case that my Murder Husbands were still alive, could be found there. The day had finally come when I’m seen as one of the voices of reason. Halle-freaking-lujah...I guess.

“When I print this, the FBI is going to have kittens. You know that right?” I told him. They understood.

“Yes,” Price said. “And that’s why I want you to reveal your source: Kade Prurnell.”

The plot thickened, and it was delicious. These guys weren’t so bad. I told them stuff would be uploaded on TC before breakfast. And as they left, I took a quick shot of them walking away, arm and arm.

**+++**

  
So there you have it. Graham and Lecter were probably fucking their way through Europe right about now, and my murderous cash cow spouses proved once again that they are just a gift that keeps on giving. Like I said, we’re just a bunch of psychopaths helping each other out.

I wonder how long it will take for the **#MurderHusbandsLive** hashtag to catch on? Long live the Murder Husbands… 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my Murder Bestie, [Devereauxs_Disease](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Devereauxs_Disease/pseuds/Devereauxs_Disease) for her support with this one. Long live my queen, Freddie.
> 
> Come say hi and visit me [on Tumblr](http://wrathofthestag.tumblr.com/).


End file.
